The Pearl

[Eryane 3698]

THE PEARL

As penned at the hand of and authored by Lady Milena of Dobrov

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In the early morning, Beatrice arose from her night’s sleep and primed herself for the day to come; her hair raggedy now made into a beautiful coiffure, and her nightgown exchanged for a fine dress befitting the best of the current fashion. Tatters and patches were plainly displayed on the fabrics, yet it bothered her little for she had much else to consume her thoughts rather than her own frets of personal countenance. Birds chirped beyond the window; a muffled, yet jovial sound for her, to hear them singing in the morning upon the rise of the sun. Light further slipped into the confines of her small abode and protruded across the floor until it met the finely-crafted crib. 

 

Her son hadn’t stirred since her own awakening, much to her astonishment. Why, for many days he had often been up at this hour with her to revel the world as it came to life, and rarely had she thought him to be a heavy sleeper. Much had changed since the recent passing of her husband. Was this another eccentricity to include on her continuously expanding list of unwanted adjustments? She was a widow too young for the role she now donned with abhorrence. She feared what lens her son would glimpse the world through as he was raised fatherless. How different may his troubles be now that he is without such an integral figure? Who might teach the boy to shave? Who might teach him to stoke the fire each morn? Each day the shifts in her prior lifestyle became a frequent reminder of her period of mourning that she, in desperation, attempted to turn a blind eye to.

 

“Good day, my little one!” She cooed, curling her fingers upon the edge of the crib to glimpse her sleeping son with eyes of devotion; and hoping that her morningly greeting might awake the boy amidst his rest, as a frantic skip of her heart heightened worries she forcibly deemed to remain at the bay of her consciousness. Not a sound emitted from her dearest, and she gave out another call, “Good morning!” Chimed she, ever-jovial with hopes of her son to come to from his slumberous state. The wail of her baby pained her, yet the world or two over she’d have given to hear it then. The babe’s face resembled the color of the thin pale sheet gently tucked underneath him, and the pure white canopy dangling about in thin, translucent fabrics. Beatrice lunged forth and cradled the boy, brushing aside the few soft strands of blonde hair upon his small forehead. The mother hummed a sweet lullaby to the stiff babe and prayers to the Lord, knowing in her mind that he must’ve only been ill, for no other answer would suffice. 

 

She girdled her son in the pale sheets of his crib, soft as they were. The cold morning air engulfed her, biting at any skin that was left without cloth. She embosomed the babe, securing the wraps and his warmth (although he was, to her denial, cold hitherto) and continued forth for the village church. Morning mass was to commence in only a few hours time, if that. Surely, there would be at least one man of the clergy to offer an ear for her woes. 

 

If it were not for the growing sunlight that poured in from the tall colored panes, there wasn’t a chance that even a man of the finest sight could see well in the church’s halls. A few candles were dotted along stony edges, all leading up to the altar at the front. Alone, a priest knelt in the pew with his head lowered and his hands clasped together in silent prayer. 

 

Beatrice came to the priest’s side and asked in a low tone, “I wish not to interrupt you from prayer, though I require your wisdom and guidance, a medicine for what has occurred– I beg of you! My son has fallen gravely ill.” And thus, she presented forth the babe with reluctance to separate any further from him. The priest observed the child with calm demeanor, and placed a gentle hand upon his forehead. 

 

“If it is guidance you seek,” said he, “Then you must retrieve a single pearl from a house untouched by death. Return to me by nightfall with this, and I shall make the medicine.” 

 

Thus she left the church with a determined heart, endeavoring to seek out the pearl asked of her by the priest. All the while Beatrice carried her baby close and bounced him in her arms, still desiring for her hopes to come to fruition. She came to the first house in the village mid-morning, and knocked thrice on the door. On the third knock, the door creaked open and a woman welcomed her inside. 

 

“Come in, come in!” She exasperated, “For otherwise you may catch a cold from the chill morning breeze!” The house was warm and all those within it were too. The woman introduced Beatrice to her husband, six children, and all the cousins that lived with them; by the end of all the greetings, she had been certain she had never met more people in all her life. How close they all seemed; for even the second and third cousins were acquainted and said to have visited often. Laughs were shared and smiles were more than a dime a dozen. 

 

Beatrice settled near the hearth as she clung to her son, and it was if a thousand men and women all jumped to assist her to a seat. She could have asked for the world, and the family would ensure their best to secure it; yet it was not the world she desired. Surely, a household so bright and full of life could not be touched by the talons of death!

 

“How may I be of assistance, missus?” The woman of the household then asked, and seated herself across from Beatrice.

 

“I seek a pearl, of no particular size or rarity. Merely a pearl,” explained she, “From a household untouched by death.” The woman’s smile faltered a hinge, and Beatrice could feel a strain on her heart. How inconsiderate, she felt, to have been so assuming! For she understood the turmoils of mourning all too new, as a young widow. Albeit her smile lessened in its broadness, it remained stalwart as an essential asset to her features. 

 

“I am afraid I will not be of assistance in your quest for such a pearl, for I have recently lost my daughter. Cold sweats took her in the night, but she is now with God.” And for an hour longer, Beatrice listened to the woman’s story of her daughter’s chronic illness and fragile nature. The woman did not wail, nor cry or sob, yet seemed at peace, for she knew that the life and death of the mundane world was not final, and there was salvation for the good followers of the Lord. Although Beatrice was touched by the story, she could not help from being disheartened at the lack of a pearl in her possession and she traipsed to another neighboring household. 

 

The next house was of a smaller proportion comparatively to the last, with rotting wood on the porch and several boards broken through. Outside, a young boy and his mother weeded a tomato garden together. The mother raised her kerchief to a sweaty forehead, and let out a loud exhale as she placed a hand on her back. Beatrice approached with strained envy as she rocked the babe in her arms. 

 

“Pardon me, missus.” The mother snapped to attention, startled by the newfound presence of Beatrice! The boy kept about his work and tossed the weeds into their growing pile, while patting down and refurbishing the disrupted dirt by refilling it again. “My sincere apologies for startling you so, but I’ve a dire question and hope you may be of assistance.” 

 

The woman ushered her son to her flank and he, although with some reluctance, left his work and tended to his mother’s side. Beatrice felt the eyes of the pair upon her child, and she held her own boy closer to her chest. “Of course we may help you. What is it you need?” 

 

“A pearl,” she reiterated from her prior visit. The woman piqued with interest, yet allowed Beatrice to continue as she gestured her onward. “If it be at all possible.” Oh, how anxious was she to ask if the pair had been affected by the sufferings of death! Might it be so, it would be a great pain to bring forth for the boy to remember, and such she could not bear. The woman invited inside for a moiety of bread, for –as according to the mother– certainly she must have a hunger for repast at mid-day. Over the break of bread, the woman told her that pearls had been a favorite of hers, often given to her by her husband. 

 

“Oh!” Beatrice beamed, “And how is your husband?” Similar to the house before, the woman’s demeanor was met with a minimal hindrance from its prior calm and lax state. She held her young boy closer, embracing him sidelong as Beatrice had desired to do for her own son once he no longer was but a babe. 

 

“He was a soldier, and he died bravely for the sake of his country. It is only my children and I who live here now, to carry on what legacy he left behind.” Thus, Beatrice could not take the woman’s pearls as she offered them again and again, for knowing that was not what the priest asked of her, and too that she would be engulfed by guilt for taking any unneeded nonpareils. She left the home with a heavy heart, and continued on to the next as the sun continued to set and the day neared its close. 

 

Four more houses she knocked thrice on their door and learned the stories of their lost loved ones, for no house was without the touch of death. Late into the eve and further into the night as the moon was to rise, Beatrice continued on her quest until there were no more households in the village. Disheartened, she returned to the church to the same front-row pew where the priest was knelt in prayer. 

 

“O’ good man of God, what guidance might you else give for me to retrieve the materials for your medicine to save my son?” She asked, and the priest outstretched his arms to take the babe into his own. He moved away the thinly-veiled fabric that covered the babe’s face, and brushed a thumb over his frozen features. 

 

The priest looked up to her and said, “You are entrapped by worldly matters, and the mundane realities you have prioritized in your life. Your babe has passed on to the next life as so many others have, for this–” he waved to the church and its ornate walls, “–is not final. Death is essential to life, dear child. Did you not see the happiness, the contentedness, of those who too had been touched by the inevitable sufferings of life finalities? He is with God now, and one day you will reunite. Yet, for now, know it in your heart that you too may continue forth to a prosperous life full of solace akin to the townsfolk, as your son does now with the Lord in the next. Certainly, you shall face sufferings once more, but such sufferings too bring peace and enlightenment.” 

 

Thus, in the following days, the priest arranged for a proper burial of the babe and all the men and women of the village came to her side to aid her when she had thought to have none left. Throughout the eve, they dined on a collection of meats and vegetables (ripe tomatoes from the mother and son’s garden) the townsfolk had prepared, and she knew that one day, if not that day, she would be all-right once more. 

 

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For my beloved brother, Dima 

 

[JoanOfArc 4604]

Father Dima smiled from the Seven Skies onto his best friend and sister. “You listened to my words from all those years ago,” he spoke softly down to her hoping she heard, “I am glad. We will be reunited soon, dear sister. I love you.” He awaited eagerly for her ascension and prayed that her soul continues to find everlasting rest in God.

[Nectorist 12870]

"Best she hone her talents towards something, at long last. A girl she is no longer..." mutters Sigismund as he reads over this latest writing, once again appreciating it, if not quite comprehending it.